He gave to her, yet tenfold claimed in return -

She hath no life but the one he for her wrought;

Proffered to her his walking heart - she turned it down,

Reposted with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn.



Prophetess or fond?,

Though her parle of truth:

"I can tomorrow - refell me if ye can!",

Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane -

S?er of the future, not of twain,

"Sicker!", quoth Cassandra.



Still, is she lief and quaint in his eye, a sight divine? -

A mistress fueled by his prest haughtiness -

If he did grant, wherefore then did he not foresee,

Belike egal as it to him might be?!



Prophetess or fond?,

Though her parle of truth:

"I can tomorrow - refell me if ye can!",

Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane -

S?er of the future, not of twain,

"Sicker!", quoth Cassandra.



'Or was he an eried being,

'Or was he weening - alack nay mo;

Her naysay' rought his heart,

Her daffing was the grave of all hope -

She belied her own words,

He thought her life, save moreo'er scourge,

She held him august, yet wee;

He left her ne'er without his heart.



Though her parle of truth:

"I can tomorrow - refell me if ye can!",

Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane -

S?er of the future, not of twain,

"Sicker!", quoth Cassandra.



'Or was he an eried being,

'Or was he weening - alack nay mo;

Her naysay' rought his heart,

Her daffing was the grave of all hope -